


made, and remade, and remade anew

by control



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/control/pseuds/control
Summary: Ponds and Neyo agree that Mace deserves a break. Mace and Ponds agree that Neyo deserves nice things. Neyo and Mace agree that Ponds’ soft heart deserves indulging. The three of them are, as ever, perfectly matched.
Relationships: CC-6454 | Ponds & CC-8826 | Neyo & Mace Windu
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	made, and remade, and remade anew

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt "domesticity"

The 91st was due back on Coruscant within the next day, and Ponds still hadn’t finished the topstitching on the quilt he’d been quietly working on for the past three months. Not that he’d figured out _how_ , exactly, he was going to convince Neyo to take the damn thing with him when he redeployed, but that was a bridge Ponds would have to conquer once he came to it. Maybe Gen- _Master_ Windu would drag him back to the Temple and they’d be able to trick him into falling asleep and Ponds could just smother him in the cheerful mishmash of colors and textures until he couldn’t refuse it. 

Really he was lucky both Masters Gallia and Allie were busy preparing to go back out to the front and had left him to his own devices; that he had already finished all of his own datawork and compiled the goings-on at the Temple for Mace to review before he rotated back into residency at the Temple was just a product of that Command-class efficiency the Kaminoans were so proud of.

Now if only he could find the spool of thread he’d been using....

  
  


Ponds had a tendency to lose himself in his work, which was why he’d made sure to set an alarm to remind himself to clean up the whirlwind of fabric scraps and batting and thread and fibers that he’d made in the apartment he shared with Mace when he was in the Temple. Even with the reminder he still barely finished before the door chime sounded and startled him from where he’d been fussing over how his finished masterpiece fell across the back of the couch.

“Come in!” he called, leaning his shoulder against the wall to wait, unaffected, in the entryway as Mace opened the door and stepped inside. Neyo was right behind him, and they had both brought their field kits with them. “Hey,” Ponds said, coming up to greet them. “Welcome back, General, Commander.”

Mace groaned, setting his bag down and stretching his arms over his head. Ponds met Neyo’s eyes, arching a brow in question. Neyo rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the tilt of his mouth was fond, if exhausted.

“It’s good to be back, Commander,” Mace said, and Ponds couldn’t help the disapproving little noise that escaped the back of his throat. “Ponds,” he corrected, and then he stopped as he moved into the living room and caught sight of the quilt Ponds had purposely, painstakingly arranged in a place of honor. “You’ve been busy.”

“I have, sir,” he said, carefully neutral as Neyo narrowed his eyes at him before setting his own kit down and following their general further into the apartment. 

“ _What_ ,” he said, “is _that_.”

“Hm?” Ponds said, busying himself with straightening their shoes in the entryway.

“Ponds,” oh, the utter despair in Neyo’s voice was beautiful, “... _how_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, finally joining them in the living room. Mace had moved on, but Neyo was still stuck in the doorway. “Need some help, vod?”

“Who let you do this,” Neyo asked, accusing, “and why haven’t the proper authorities been made aware?”

“It’s very well constructed,” Mace said from where he’d bent closer to inspect the quilt. Ponds left Neyo to his muttering in the doorway and came over to join him.

“Thank you,” he said. “The fabric’s all recycled, stuff the tailors salvaged but didn’t have any use for. They were very helpful,” he added. “Thanks for the tip on that one, by the way.” 

Mace hummed, a tiny little pleased sound, and ran the tips of his fingers over a bright red-and-gold tooka-patterned panel with great care. “I see you’ve been working through Plo’s recommendations,” he said, amused.

Ponds beamed. “Sir!” he said. “The treatises on embedding sense memories in non-living objects were particularly enlightening.”

“I’ll say,” Mace said, his voice soft. He lifted his gaze to meet Ponds’ own. “Well, whatever you did, it worked. I can _feel_ the love you put into this.”

“Hear that, Neyo?” Ponds said, raising his voice to be heard. “I put _love_ into this quilt, all for you, vod!”

“Would it have killed you to put some taste in there as well?” Neyo called from the kitchenette. “Thing hurts my eyes so bad I can’t stand in the same room as it.”

“Every time he comes back I swear he gets grumpier,” Ponds told Mace. 

Neyo’s slightly muffled “ _I heard that!_ ” finally got the job done, pulling a light laugh out of their general, and the little knot in Ponds’ chest that tightened unbearably with every deployment began to loosen.

  
  


Ponds, by virtue of being stationed full-time in the Temple, still had duties that needed to get done, so he’d reluctantly left Mace and Neyo to settle in and get some rest. Really he shouldn’t have been surprised by the absence of Mace’s shoes and robe in the entry when he got back, but he couldn’t help his exasperated sigh. His general was supposed to be on _leave_.

He resettled the box of goodies he’d been gifted from the creche in his arms, moving into the living room, and found Neyo sitting on the couch watching one of those awful, abstract, artsy holos he always managed to find no matter where in the galaxy he was. At least this one looked Corellian and would probably be somewhat bearable; the experimental Alderaanian art films he’d forced Ponds to watch on his last leave had been nigh unbearable. And Ponds was never going to forgive him for the fact that _he_ now knew enough about the genre to be able to make that distinction. Neyo paused the film as Ponds made his way into the room.

“Get over here,” Neyo said, gruff. He was holding the quilt in his lap, running his fingers over the bright yellow panel of soft, care-worn cotton that was all that was left of a particularly well-loved blanket from the creche. According to the theories he’d been reading, it was saturated with Force-memories of the innocent love and bright joy of every being who’d ever snuggled into it; Ponds was inclined to believe them, because he couldn’t so much as look at it without feeling warm and snuggly himself. “Ugly thing’s too big for one person, verd’ika.”

Ponds couldn’t help the way his smile wavered at the nickname, turning away to set the box down, his breath catching for just half a second in remembered horror before he composed himself. Neyo wasn’t trying to be cruel, to remind him of everything he’d lost, but his gruff care was something Ponds had to consciously remember. He sank down onto the couch before the edges of Neyo’s own all-too-rare smile could turn down into something rueful and knocked their shoulders together. “If you wanted to cuddle, al’verde, you could have just said so. _I_ won’t judge you for it.”

“That’s because you have no dignity,” Neyo muttered, and Ponds snickered as he settled the quilt over their laps regardless.

“What does that say about _you_ ,” he teased, leaning in to rest his head on Neyo’s shoulder, his arms snaking around his sides to pull him in closer. “At least your body isn’t as prickly as your heart, Ney’ika,” he added and settled in, comfortable and content, for the long haul.

Neyo’s sigh came from somewhere deep in his chest, but the fingers of his free hand were already trailing warmth down the back of Ponds’ neck. 

“General gone?” Ponds asked, a hint of reproach in his voice.

Neyo huffed, lightly smacking his hand against the back of Ponds’ head. “Meditating,” he said. “Probably in the gardens, knowing him.”

“I’ll allow it,” Ponds told him, earning himself another light smack. “How long’s your leave?” he asked before Neyo could start the holo again.

“Trying to get rid of me already, vod? I’m hurt,” Neyo said

Ponds shoved his fingers into his ribs.

“Kriffing _ow_!” Neyo grumbled, wrapping his hand around Ponds’ wrist and shoving it down against the couch next to their sides. “Debrief tomorrow, then Gallia’s hitching a ride with Kenobi and the 212th and I’ll have about a week before the 91st ships back out with Allie.” He smirked. “You’ll get a nice month or so to play house with Windu, don’t worry.”

Ponds wriggled his other hand free from where it was shoved up against the back of the couch to poke Neyo’s ribs again. “I’ll worry all I want, thanks,” he told him, “especially when I only get a week with _you_.”

“Week’s a luxury, Ponds,” Neyo said gruffly. “You know what kinds of numbers we’re working with.”

Ponds _did_ know what kinds of numbers they were working with. The knowledge did nothing to alleviate his stress. “I wish I could be out there with you,” he said, muffled where his face was pressed into Neyo’s chest.

“I don’t,” Neyo said, frank. When Ponds reared his head back up to look at him, indignant, he scruffed the back of his neck, shoving him back down. “I _don’t_ , Ponds, I really don’t. You know how much relief it brings Windu, knowing you’re safe here in the Temple? Helping keep everyone else here safe?”

Ponds closed his eyes, tilted to rest his forehead against Neyo’s collarbone. “Just Windu, huh?” he said, soft.

Neyo’s disgusted noise would have been a lot quieter if Ponds wasn’t pressed directly up against his throat. “Maybe not _just_ Windu,” he said. “I know Brace is glad to have one less idiot in the 91st.”

“Like _you’ve_ ever listened to a medic in your life,” Ponds huffed.

“Don’t need to see a medic if you never get hit,” Neyo told him, reaching to pick up the remote from where it’d fallen to the floor.

Ponds snorted. “I don’t know who’s been feeding you lies, but smug isn’t a good look on you, Ney’ika.”

“Shut up and watch the holo, verd’ika,” Neyo said, finished with the conversation, so Ponds shut up and did.

  
  


Ponds woke to Mace and Neyo’s hushed voices in the hall. How Neyo had wriggled out from his cuddles without waking him he wasn’t sure, but he had left Ponds the quilt, which was as warm and comfortable as he’d hoped. If Neyo didn’t take it with him when he left, Ponds might have to reconsider sneaking it into a care package and instead just keep it for himself.

He felt drowsy, comfortable, in that dangerous post-nap state between sleepy and awake, and the lull of conversation drifting in from the hall wasn’t helping. Ponds forced himself off the couch; if he didn’t get up now, he’d sleep through dinner. Mace and Neyo were certainly bastards enough to let him, _and_ they’d convince themselves it was for his own good. 

When he got back from the fresher, Mace was arranging cartons of food on the low table in the living room.

“Mace, you shouldn’t have,” Ponds couldn’t keep the chiding tone out of his voice.

“Don’t worry, Ponds, I didn’t lift a finger,” Mace assured him, his eyes sparkling with humor. “This was all Depa’s doing.”

Ponds raised his eyebrows as he considered the spread; Depa and Grey had shipped back out over a week ago.

“Isn’t General Billaba on the other side of the Galaxy right now?” Neyo asked, exasperated. Ponds had to bite his lip to keep from smiling; Neyo even four months ago wouldn’t have kept up with that sort of thing.

The twist of Mace’s mouth was wry. “Commander, I assure you, Depa isn’t one to let little things like time and space get in the way of her meddling.” 

Neyo rolled his eyes, but Ponds and Mace both knew him well enough to see he was pleased. 

“Well, I can’t possibly eat all of this on my own,” Mace said, settling down cross-legged on a cushion. “This is from one of Depa’s favorite restaurants on Coruscant. I think you’ll like it, Neyo.”

Ponds snorted a laugh as he took his own seat. “He’s got you dead to rights, vod. Spicy and sour all in one.”

Neyo huffed a breath, shaking his head in despair. “Why do I _like_ you?”

“I made dessert,” Ponds singsonged, reaching over the table to help Mace dole out the food onto their plates.

“Spicy and sour and a little bit of sweet,” Mace teased. “I think we can all work with that.”

Neyo shook his head again, tapping his fingers against the table until the food was all served. At their expectant looks, he picked up his spoon and took a tiny, delicate bite.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” he hummed, overplaying it like the guests on those ridiculous late-night cooking shows Razor liked, tripping over themselves to compliment dishes that made field rations look like gourmet cuisine. “Simply _delicious_.”

“I’ll tell Depa you said so,” Mace said, dry, and Neyo barked a laugh.  
  


Once they’d cleared the table of dishes, leftovers stored in the cooling unit, and settled back in with drinks, Ponds pulled the box he’d collected from the creche towards where he sat on a cushion on the floor, Mace and Neyo on the couch behind him, reruns of some game show on the holoscreen in front.

Part of Ponds’ duties in the Temple involved sorting through mail and other goodies and gifts to send out as care packages for the vod’e out fighting on the front lines. The Initiates and other Temple-bound Jedi had been happy to help when he’d floated the idea to them, and now every other tenday he went through a crateful of artwork, cards, handmade crafts, non-perishable snacks, and whatever else folks wanted to send along, making sure that items that were addressed got where they needed to go and that no vod went without _something_ from the homefront in any supply run.

Ponds reached into the box and pulled out a small, lumpy papier-mache replica of Rex’s helmet, painstakingly handpainted and complete with slightly lopsided jaig eyes. He passed it over his shoulder to Mace, leaning forward to pull his basket of scrap fabric toward him. It was _just_ out of reach, but before he could reach further it moved towards him, instead.

“Frivolous use,” Neyo muttered, smirking when Mace rolled his eyes at him and handed the replica helmet back to Ponds, instead Force-pulling another box, this one filled with handwritten cards and colorful art from the creche, between himself and Neyo.

Ponds pulled small scraps of fabric out of his stash, rolling them up loosely and stuffing them inside the helmet until it was well-supported before wrapping it up in larger pieces. He tucked the secured piece into the care package he’d send out with the 501st whenever they were due for their next supply run, smiling as he imagined the look on little Rex’ika’s face.

And so it went: he placed a canvas bag full of hand-knitted lothwolves in the crate shipping out to the 104th; the tins of citrusy biscuits in the shape of Bly’s golden tattoos went to the 327th; a package of socks decorated with images of rare plant life on Kashyyyk to the 41st; the frankly enormous bag of candy-covered chocolates he reserved for the Nova Corps, tucked in between spare blankets from the Temple’s quartermaster. 

Mace tapped at his shoulder, and Ponds reached back to look at the drawing he was holding. In it, lovingly rendered as only a child with an artistic vision could, stood Shaak Ti, lightsaber in hand, a cowering form that could only be Grievous disarmed at her feet. Ponds tried to hold back his giggle at Colt in the background, surrounded by little sparkly sticker hearts as he took in the scene, but one look at Mace and Neyo instead had all three of them breaking out in laughter. 

“He,” Ponds tried, “last time he was here he,” _Force_ , Ponds couldn’t stop laughing, and Neyo’s insinuating little eyebrow waggles were _not_ helping, “Master Ti wanted to stop by the creche, so he went with her and told them all how she beat Grievous. _Twice_.”

“Well,” Mace said, and, oh, he was _smirking_ , “clearly he told them a lot more than that.”

“He’s never coming back to the Temple again,” Neyo said. “Ponds, you’d better warn Rancor.”

“Surely he won’t do anything drastic,” Mace started, but Ponds shook his head, let his grin go wicked.

“They’ll need the warning,” he told him, “so they can make sure they’re ready to record his face when he sees it.”

Mace’s mischievous little grin was truly a sight to behold. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything for the 91st in those boxes?” 

Ponds bit his lip. “I really couldn’t say, sir,” he said.

Mace raised an eyebrow. Behind him, Neyo shook his head warningly. Ponds ignored them both and went back to rummaging through his own box, hoping to come up with a distraction. He pulled out a stack of printed pictures, glossy and bright, from the 212th’s last leave, strung together on a sturdy yellow ribbon—full-color holos of Cody’s boys wreaking havoc in the Temple, vod’e living their lives to the fullest in whatever short moments they could find. Ponds was never more thankful for his posting than when he saw first-hand evidence of how well his brothers wore joy, and flipping through the pictures his chest filled with a warmth so all-encompassing it was a wonder he wasn’t bursting at the seams.

  
  


Ponds had wrapped and packed away the last bundle of cards when Neyo poked at his shoulder with his foot. He looked back at him, and Neyo tilted his head pointedly at where Mace was valiantly fighting to stay awake, his head nodding down as they watched. Neyo rolled his eyes at whatever expression was on Ponds’ face, but he got up all the same.

“Let’s get you to bed, General,” he said, soft, holding out a hand for Mace to take.

Mace blinked up at him sleepily, then looked from his hand down to where Ponds was still sitting on the floor. 

“Bedtime,” Ponds told him, fond. “I’ll wrap up in here.”

Mace gifted him a warm smile. “Well, then. Goodnight, Ponds,” he said, taking Neyo’s hand and letting him pull him up.

“Goodnight, Mace,” Ponds murmured, and watched as Neyo herded him towards his room, quilt wrapped around his shoulders, etching the memory into his mind.


End file.
